


Reality Bleeds Through

by silent_nyx



Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort, I don't think it's that graphic but the warning is there for reasons, Implied/Referenced Torture, Malcolm Bright Needs a Hug, Nightmares, Restraints, Violence, Whump, only a little torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-15
Updated: 2021-03-15
Packaged: 2021-03-23 04:07:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,169
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30049665
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silent_nyx/pseuds/silent_nyx
Summary: Malcolm finds himself unable to escape his nightmares; consumed with a pain he can't seem to find.Prompt: Dislocated shoulder
Relationships: Gil Arroyo & Malcolm Bright
Comments: 14
Kudos: 36





	Reality Bleeds Through

The pain was hot and blinding; gnawing it's way into the very depths of his soul. It was all consuming and his mind clawed at the edges of his sanity in a desperate attempt to escape it. An agonizing electric shock pulsed all the way from his shoulder down to the tips of his fingers, climbing it's way up into his neck, making his jaw clench and try to grind it away. His right arm felt wrong. It was too heavy and had a strange numbing, swollen sensation when he tried to move it. It felt as if it was both searing and freezing at same time. Malcolm didn't understand. His mind was frayed and unable to pair the sensation of what felt like his arm tearing off with the feeling of his father's hands wrapped around his small ones. The smooth handle of a blade squeezed tight between his sweaty palms as he was forced to press it against the flesh of...someone. 

He gasped out a violent breath and the landscape of his nightmare spun and began to shift and flash between memories; a desperate attempt to find the cause of this fresh agony. Horrors morphed in shockingly vivid color before his eyes; first there was Gil gasping his final breath under his father's scalpel, the ever present girl in the box whimpering so quietly and desperately it made his stomach turn, Ainsley's eyes glinting as she looked right into his soul with blood dripping from her fingertips, Dani walking away and never coming back. Malcolm couldn't keep track of it all, of this reality, or whatever you call this dark, horrible place that writhes deep inside of him, as real as anything he's ever known if he was honest with himself. But this world usually had a rhythm to it, a semi-predictable pace that came with some level of predictability. Memories would fight through regular nightmares to rise to the surface of his consciousness and give him glimpses of what he desired. Not tonight though. Tonight, the pain was all consuming in his personal hellscape. He couldn't escape it as his world twisted and spun around him. With every recurring nightmare he found himself plunged into, the pain followed. It was so intense he thought he could see it if he just looked hard enough.

He knew he'd find his way to Watkins soon. Pain always brought him to John. Faithfully, like a dog after a bone. Malcolm found himself to often living with a paralyzing fear of simply falling asleep with a mere headache. Even that small measure of pain would echo deep into his subconscious and drag him back to bloody chains and a looming dark figure smiling down at him as he writhed in agony. Malcolm didn't miss the irony of that particular predicament. Not sleeping would only turn a headache into a migraine and the cold basement would flood into his dreams and find him that much sooner; every single time. He was powerless to stop it. Sometimes he was tired enough to find some peace in it's predictability at least. 

Malcolm struggled to wake. This was a rare night where he knew he was sleeping; the sheer chaotic fabric of his dream leaving his rational mind to come to that obvious conclusion. That never made things better, unfortunately. Instead, he was left with a sensation of drowning when he knew he was sleeping, fighting to swim to the surface of his own consciousness. He still had that feeling as he dragged his eyelids open, knowing he was still trapped and terrified of what he'd find. Malcolm rasped in a shaky breath, desperate for some semblance of calm before the next nightmare began. Breathe. In, and out. He tasted mildew on his tongue and the chilled air tore at his tender lungs. He cringed at the pain. His lungs felt like they'd been wrung out and hung to dry on barbed wire. He slammed his eyes shut again, blocking out the images before him. 

“Hush now.” 

Malcolm's entire body broke out into a cold sweat at the voice, a bone deep shutter wracking him to his core. 

“You'll only work yourself up if you don't calm down, Malcolm.” 

He managed to open his eyes, barely able to see through the curtain of sweat soaked hair across his face. He whimpered.  
Malcolm found himself sitting on the floor of his family's basement, once again. Metal biting into the delicate skin of his wrists. Concrete unforgiving against his too thin frame. He shuttered again, curling into himself but stopping short at the sharp stabbing in his shoulder. He managed to turn his heavy head to the right, fully expecting his mind to have conjured a knife digging deep into ruined flesh. He blinked in confusion at seeing nothing out of place. No more blood than usual, no gaping wound to explain away the pain. A small, amused huffing sound drew his attention back to the familiar figure looming over him. Watkins stood solidly before him. Arms hanging loosely, head cocked to the side as he watched Malcolm; a smirk twisting it's way across his mouth. 

“That wasn't me this time, Malcolm.” 

Watkins took one step forward and gripped Malcolm's right shoulder with a crushing strength. Malcolm simply caved in on himself, shoulders sagging as his shackled hands pulled up as far as they were permitted in an attempt to stop the punishing pressure. He whimpered and gasped until he couldn't stand it any longer. The never-ending pain welling it's way up from his very core like a caged animal, rushing out of his throat with the force of the ocean; he screamed. 

Malcolm's eyes tore themselves open as remnants of his scream echoed in his ears. His breath was frantic, body soaked with sweat and tears free flowing down his face. Slowly, the world began coming into focus. He was in his own bed, covers twisted around his legs and stomach, tight enough to be confining. But his arm. God. Malcolm moaned out a pained breath. The pain just wouldn't stop. Was he even awake. 

He was laying half on his left side, his right arm pulled back and away from him at an odd angle. He breathed and breathed, trying to count the pain away but it still hurt so badly. A blinding hot pain burned it's way from his shoulder to his fingertips. He remembered thinking something similar in his dream; but the pain wasn't supposed to follow him here. Back to this reality, where he was supposed to be safer. Maybe not safe, but just...less, somehow. Instead, he found himself waking up in just as much agony as Watkins was happily squeezing out of him. 

Malcolm took one more deep breath and steeled himself. He turned his head to look at his right shoulder. Dislocated. Again. He collapsed his head back onto the bed, letting the soft mattress just hold him until he gathered the strength to deal with this mess. Fingers fumbling, he pulled the safety latch on the restraint on his left wrist and slowly got his elbow underneath him. Still turned to the left and his right arm pulled behind him, unwilling to respond to any attempt at movement without a lightning bolt of pain sending him back to unconsciousness; really the last place he wanted to find himself again. He sat up, counting the spaces between breaths, and carefully turned so his legs could swing off the right side of the bed. 

He must have been wrenching on the dislocated shoulder for a long time, he thought as he looked at the odd angle of his bone sitting in the wrong place. It's never been this bad. Over the years, he's accidentally dislocated it a handful of times, fighting against his restraints as he fought against his own mind. But he's always woken up, found the right angle again and popped it back with a practiced maneuver he payed extra special attention to during his F.B.I. training. It was quite simple really, and he always keeps a sling in the bottom drawer to wear around the house for when it happens. This time though, this time he might need some help. 

Malcolm shivered as the sweat that was starting to chill trickled it's way down his back. He reached across himself to his numbing hand and pulled the last safety release, curling slightly forward as that small amount of pressure gave way. He got to his feet and stumbled around his bed to his nightstand where he'd left his phone to charge for a few hours. Sitting back down on his bed, he squinted and stared at the screen, knowing he needed to bite the bullet and call Gil. Knowing Gil will take him to the hospital. He sighed deeply, completely defeated, and dialed. 

_______________

Gil knocked lightly on the door to Malcolm's loft. He knew the kid was awake but it seemed the thing to do at this hour. He waited, his head turned towards the door, trying to hear the quiet, wrecked voice that had called him at 4 in the morning to tell him he needed help getting to the hospital. Gil had shot out of bed before the word “hospital” made it out of Malcolm's mouth. In typical fashion, his kid had downplayed whatever was wrong. He still wasn't sure what had happened other than he was “fine” but thinks he should get his shoulder looked at. 

Hearing nothing at all from the other side of the door, Gil used his key and let himself in. He closed the door quietly behind him and scanned the loft, not a single thing out of place...except one.  
Malcolm was still in his pjs looking completely wrung out. He was sitting on the bottom step of the stairs leading up to his office, leaning heavily against his left side and attempting to hold his right arm as still as humanly possible. Gil winced in sympathy at the sight. Malcolm managed to look up at Gil and whatever was left unbroken in his heart for the kid shattered at what he saw. Malcolm's eyes were pools of anguish, unfocused in pain and misery. He looked half in this world and half in another; both too cruel to someone so innocent. Gil sunk down to his knees, right in front of Malcolm and wrapped his arms around him, being so careful not to jar his obviously out of place shoulder. Malcolm melted against him as if holding himself up had been the hardest thing in the world and Gil gently took almost all his weight. He slowly reached his hand up and carded his fingers through the tangled mess of hair, pressing a kiss to the top of his head. He stilled when he heard an abrupt wet sob and Malcolm flinched at the unwilling escape of sound, only to have one after another follow suit as the dam completely gave way. Gil held on just that little bit tighter as his kid broke apart in his arms. He knew he could be hurting him holding him even as carefully as he was but he just needed Malcolm to know he was safe. That whatever torment the depths of his mind had inflicted upon him were no longer and he was firmly in this world, with Gil, and he would keep him safe. Malcolm clung to the sweater Gil had thrown on in his haste to get to Malcolm. He buried his face in Gil's neck and took stuttering, gasping breaths; each one soaking in a little more of Gil's presence. The edges of his splintered mind sought out the familiar smell of Gil's shampoo, the feel of the sweater he was pretty sure Gil was wearing just yesterday against his face. Gil became his grounding force, gravity paled in comparison. He breathed until the shaking rattling him down to his bones eased up, lingering just under the surface where he could manage it again.

Taking one last deep breath, Malcolm pulled back from the wet spot he created on Gil's collar and looked bashfully into Gil's eyes. He felt embarrassed, but that feeling whisked harshly away when he looked at Gil. The pain there must have matched his own and he didn't understand. Malcolm's eyes darting back and forth as he tried to understand, to profile, to see what had caused such anguish, to see what he must have missed consumed in his own hell. 

Gil sighed and gave a half chuckle at the look of confused worry Malcolm's face had morphed into. He put his hand firmly on the back of his neck, tugging him just that little bit closer, “you keep forgetting how much I love you kid.” 

He looked into Malcolm's eyes, gauging how in this reality he seemed as his kid just gaped at him. After a moment, Gil gave a firm nod. 

“Let's get you to the hospital.”


End file.
